


to know, to protecc, & to fuck with

by floweryfran, peterstank



Series: stankyflower verse [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, mustard is the superior condiment!, natasha romanoff makes the best hot chocolate, peter and tony bickering for four thousand words, sam wilson is a robot pigeon, starkswag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23955343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweryfran/pseuds/floweryfran, https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterstank/pseuds/peterstank
Summary: Peter leans between their seats. “What do you see?”“They’re walking inside the restaurant,” Tony informs him. “He’s making a joke.”“Is she laughing? Give me the binoculars.”“No,” Tony leans away from his grabby hands. “You dragged me out here, I get to spy.”Nat rolls her eyes at their antics. “There’s another pair in the bag.”or: peter parker convinces the responsible adults in his life to join him on the world’s stupidest stake-out
Relationships: May Parker/Sam Wilson, Peter Parker & Natasha Romanoff, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: stankyflower verse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1754236
Comments: 148
Kudos: 735
Collections: ellie marvel fics - read, marvel fics that are marvelous





	to know, to protecc, & to fuck with

**Author's Note:**

> we were sad we didn’t get to see black window today so here’s... this kdjdkdjdnfn

  
“You’re the only person I trust to help me with this,” Nat says, holding both of Tony’s hands in hers, staring earnestly into his eyes. 

Tony blinks. “I wasn’t aware you were going into comedy.”

Nat relaxes her shoulders and her expression melts into a smirk. “I made you a special hot chocolate. Is that enough to convince you?”

Tony tilts his head. “Where are the goods?”

“Kitchen counter.”

“I’ll entertain your request.”

Natasha leads the way into the kitchen. Sometimes it pisses her off just how astounded Tony is every time she reminds him that she trusts him. Other times though, it just amuses her. After all, he’s got a pretty damn good excuse for being clueless as to how trust works: Howard Stark. A complete lack of regular, healthy human interaction throughout one’s formative years can do things to the brain. Stupid, ugly things. 

She would know.

Her and Tony, they’ve always had trouble keeping things completely serious—even important things, stuff with which they can only trust the other. Like when she had called him to help code those chips before the Insight data dump and he’d spent thirty minutes describing the consistency of Tennessee snow before alerting her the codes were finished and on the way, or when he didn’t know which color Firebird to buy and restore and she pretended to be dead in the wilderness for a week. They’re too close, in that way: they know how to pull each other’s pigtails just as well as they can talk each other off a ledge, but they’re likely to do both at the same time. They’re good for each other by being horrible to each other. 

He wasn’t the first person she grew to trust outside of Strike Team Delta for no reason. 

Nat drops herself on a barstool, slumping over the counter. Her cheek squishes against the marble. With one finger, she nudges the steaming mug towards Tony. 

Tony lifts the cup to his lips. “Gosh. It’s still warm. How did you do that, heat vision?” Then, squinting at her, “Wait, how long have you been in my house?”

She grins sharkishly. “Forever, and not once. Years, but only seconds. I am the night and the shadows crawling through it. I am the—”

“Black Widow, killer of men, vanquisher of the American spirit, blah blah,” Tony rolls his eyes. 

  
Nat pouts.

He reaches over and pats the back of her hand in consolation. “I know you are, honey. I’ve seen your scary thigh holster.”

“It is pretty scary,” she agrees. “Lots of fancy straps. Holds a pistol and three knives. Three!”

“Innovation that excites,” Tony says. He takes a sip of the hot chocolate. “Hey, you didn’t even poison this! Thanks, Tash.”

She hums. Then, “Come on,are you in or not?”

“What I want to know is why the kid asked _you_ first instead of me,” Tony says, smacking his lips after another sip. “That alone sets my teeth on edge.”

“Are you an internationally acclaimed terrorist with a deep, prolific history in espionage?” 

“No,” he admits.

“Answered your own question, then.”

Tony hums. “Alright. Next question: why? Just why?”

Nat picks her head up off the counter. “You trying to tell me that when the kid says _jump,_ you actually think about it before you ask _how high?”_

“Occasionally, I do.”

“Hm.” Nat shakes her head once. Will wonders never cease? “Peter wants to see what’s actually going on—make sure May’s being treated right and all that. _I_ want to fuck with Sam.”

Tony takes another long, slurping sip of the hot chocolate. When he lowers it, Nat swipes it and takes a sip herself. 

“Both valiant reasons to partake,” Tony allows. He rubs his knuckles through his beard, gaze far away. Nat knows this look. It’s his _I’ve made a decision, really, but my brain hasn’t caught up and I want it to look like I’m still thinking_ expression. “I guess I’ll come,” Tony says slowly. “To make sure May’s safe, and to protect Peter from your reckless streak.”

“I don’t have a reckless streak.”

Tony flicks one eyebrow up.

“I don’t have a reckless streak when the kid is around,” she corrects. 

“Still,” Tony says. He’s tilting his head side to side and humming thoughtfully and Natasha hates the fact that it’s sort of cute, like a little cat. “Protecting Pete would be pretty sexy of me.”

“Very sexy of you.”

“The safer he is, the fewer grey hairs I get.”

“Mhm.”

“Even if this is infringing on May’s privacy and, like, totally gonna make her beat me up.”

“ _If_ she finds out.”

“She’ll probably find out,” Tony says. “The kid is… not particularly adept at acting covert.”

Nat kicks him under the table. “I’ve been teaching him. Asshole.”

“It’s not a testament against your teaching ability, but a testament to his complete obliviousness.”

“He is pretty oblivious.”

_“So_ oblivious. It’s adorable.”

“It’s pretty cute,” Nat agrees. She really means it, too. Peter is precious. She hopes he can stay precious for as long as possible.

“Alright,” Tony says finally. “Yeah, I’ll come. I assume you only needed me for my tech, right?”

“And moral support,” Nat says innocently. She pushes her chair back and stands. “A pair of sweet wheels wouldn’t hurt, either,” she adds, shoots him one last smirk, and heads toward the elevator. 

“You use me!” Tony calls after her. “It’s very rude and selfish and I’d like some sort of compensation.”

“Happy kid,” Nat says. She pushes the button and the doors start to close.

“Oh shit that _is_ a good form of compensation,” is the last thing she hears before they shut.

* * *

“I swear to god if you get ketchup on my nice leather seat I’ll kill you.”

Peter’s face scrunches up. “But then there would be like, blood and stuff.”

“I know how to get blood out of things,” Nat pipes up, popping a fry in her mouth. “I could take care of that for you.”

“Well thank you, dear,” he says, and then glances at Peter in the rear view mirror. “The threat of murder still stands. Be careful with your condiments or die by my sword.”

“The rationale there is like, astounding,” Peter says. Then he pouts. “Why do I have to sit in the back?”

“Because you’re the baby,” Nat tells him. 

“I’m _not_ a baby—”

“I didn’t say ‘a’ baby, I said ‘the’ baby, as in: the youngest person here.” She pauses. “Give me a nugget.”

“No.”

“Now. Do it.”

“No, these are my nuggets. Tony asked if you wanted any when we were at the window and you said no, which means you don’t get to take mine. You had your chance and you were a _fool._ ”

Nat squints at him for a long second and then, in one quick, deadly movement, snatches one of his six precious nuggets with the precision and speed of a fucking viper.

Peter gasps. “The treachery!”

“Try skill, little spinner,” she says, tearing it in two and popping half in her mouth. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you one day.”

“Hey, focus up,” Tony says suddenly, jerking to attention and almost spilling his soda. He snaps his fingers. “Binoculars, kid.”

Peter rolls his eyes and grabs the duffel bag of shit Nat had brought. When he unzips it, he freezes. “Hey Nat?”

“Yeah?”

“What in the good _fuck_ do we need with a _hedge trimmer?!”_

She shrugs. “You can never be too prepared.”

“A _hedge trimmer?!”_

“Just give me the binoculars!” Tony says, reaching around for them. Peter digs them out (pushing aside various knives, guns, a katana…) and hands them over. Tony scoots forward and squints through them. Nat pointedly flicks the light off and the car goes dark. 

Peter leans between their seats. “What do you see?”

“They’re walking inside the restaurant,” Tony informs him. “He’s making a joke.”

“Is she laughing? Give me the binoculars.”

“ _No,_ ” Tony leans away from his grabby hands. “You dragged me out here, I get to spy.”

Nat rolls her eyes at their antics. “There’s another pair in the bag,” she tells him, prompting Peter to continue rifling through it until he pulls out an obscenely _tiny_ pair. 

“What the fuck, Natasha.”

She laughs. “Give them.”

Peter reluctantly hands them over, but Nat only looks through them for a few seconds before she passes them back. Finally Peter gets a good view of his aunt and Sam: they’re seated at a table right by the window, talking and laughing and—“Ew, what is he doing? Is he _stroking_ her _arm?”_

Tony laughs. “Oh, this is too good.”

“ _Good?_ This is a disgrace! I need a bucket to vomit in.”

“Use the bag,” Nat says, passing him the crumpled brown sack the fast food had come in. Peter tosses it back at her with a scowl. “Oh, you’re gonna be like that, huh? Give those back, then.”

She snatches the binoculars away. Peter blinks owlishly as his vision adjusts to seeing things at a normal distance. 

Unable to spy on May and Sam anymore, he turns his attention to Tony and Nat. They’re both completely oblivious to him and look like total dorks, eating while watching like they’re at the opera and using those stupid spy-glass things. 

Peter rests his chin on the corner of Tony’s seat. He’s kneeling against the back one, which allows him to wrap his arm around Tony’s collarbone, too. Tony absently lets him check on Sam and May, just in time to see the guy—“Ugh, he’s kissing her hand. That’s _disgusting._ ”

“It’s not disgusting if she likes it,” Tony says, “which she clearly does.”

“Yuck,” Peter’s mouth twists, “just fry me.”

Tony pops a fry in Peter’s mouth. He’s still watching the couple and seems more riveted than Bucky does when he watches his soaps. “Oh, cute, she’s letting him try her pasta.”

“Pasta? She’s not having a salad?” Peter demands. “Fuck, that means she’s comfortable with him. God. Oh my god. He’s gonna be my uncle in like, six months tops, isn’t he? Oh _shit.”_

Tony finally looks at Peter. 

Only he like, totally forgets that he’s using binoculars and can’t actually see that far. He bumbles and lowers them, and then asks, “Would that bother you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I just, y’know, worry. I know it’s been a couple of years since you lost Ben, but it doesn’t mean all of this is easy for you. I get the feeling you haven’t exactly discussed it with May?”

“Whatever gives you that idea?”

“Well,” Tony ventures, “we’re parked outside the restaurant she’s inside with her date, for starters.”

Peter shrugs. “We had a conversation about it before she started, like, looking for dudes. I told her I just wanted her to be happy.”

“But are _you_ happy?”

Peter grins. He rests his cheek on Tony’s shoulder and really hugs him as best he can. “No,” he says. “My aunt is dating a robot pigeon, Tony.”

He laughs. “Oh, hey, it’s time!” Nat says abruptly. 

Peter and Tony share the binoculars this time, each closing one eye and peering through like a telescope. To Peter’s surprise, May and Sam have now been joined by a mariachi band. Even from here he can hear them singing the happy birthday song. 

“It’s not even his birthday,” Nat giggles. 

“ _This_ was your big diabolical plan?” Tony demands. “A mariachi band and—is that a flan? On fire?”

It’s actually a tiny flan with about two dozen birthday candles precariously stuck inside. Nat’s grin sharpens and she fumbles with some kind of speaker; suddenly they’re provided with a live audio feed of the restaurant. 

“It’s—it’s not my birthday—” Peter hears Sam protesting. “Please, there was some kind of mistake—”

“ _Happy biiiiirthday, happy biiiirthday—”_

“Your friend said it was your fiftieth,” one of the wait staff says, “but we couldn’t fit that many.”

Peter and Tony crack up, but then panic when Tony accidentally elbows the horn. Sam and May whip around at the sound.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” Peter hisses. “Drive!”

“But I—what—”

“ _Go,_ asshole!” Nat snaps, sliding down in her seat so she can’t be seen.

Tony starts the engine and peels noisily out of the parking lot.

* * *

They’re seated on the floor in the living room between the back of the couch and the french doors. 

Hiding. They’re hiding. Tony is not ashamed to admit it. 

May is scary and Sam is part bird or something, and birds are super suspicious, so Tony is pretty sure they could absolutely get beaten up or disappeared by that tag team. Even Nat. It’s not a risk he’s willing to take. Thus: hiding.

“Let’s address our mistakes,” Natasha suggests.

Tony snorts as Peter drops his face into his palms.

“Keeping your horn connected is never a good idea on silent stake-outs,” Nat informs them. 

Peter tips over sideways, his head thumping onto Tony’s thighs. Tony rubs at Peter’s shoulder to bolster him. With Natasha, when there is a mistake, it is never her fault. They are likely about to get roasted. They need to hang onto whoever they can for the sake of their mental health. 

“I know better for next time,” Tony offers, doing his best to look chastised.

She glares at him. “I refuse to stake-out with either of you ever again. Ketchup? The messiest stake-out sauce ever. Completely unprecedented, you didn’t even think it through.” A pause. “And honey mustard is superior, anyway.”

“Truth,” Peter says. 

Tony scowls down at him. “Honey mustard is an atrocity. Sweet _and_ nutty? Where’s the spice? Where’s the texture?”

“Grey poupon,” Peter says. 

“Dijon,” Natasha adds.

“Whole grain.”

“Yellow.”

“When did this become a mustard competition?” Tony demands, holding a hand up. “No, seriously, I thought we were gonna be good students and focus on our faults for Nat, but we got hung up and we didn’t even get hung up on something _fun_ or _exciting,_ like chicken sandwiches. Mustard? The Rob Kardashian of condiments?”

“We can do relish, if you want,” Peter offers.

Nat opens her mouth—no doubt to deliver a soliloquy of epic proportions waxing poetic as to the many assets and cons of relish in all sizes and shapes—but is cut off by the ding of the elevator opening.

“Shit oh shit,” Peter hisses, burrowing further into Tony’s lap. 

Nat lays flat on her side and Tony folds in half over Peter’s back. They wait a long moment. 

As soon as Tony thinks they’re safe: “What the fuck, guys.”

Tony sits up first and peers over the back of the couch. May and Sam don’t look particularly annoyed, but they’re both a little red in the cheeks and May’s once-careful braid is a mess of flyaways. She’s carrying her heels in her hand. The three spyskateers have definitely thrown a big wet towel over the date mood.

“Uh,” Tony starts, “Well, you see... Peter?”

Peter peeks over the edge of the couch to Tony’s left, just eyes and a puff of messy hair. “Go ahead, Nat,” he says generously.

Nat pops up to Peter’s left, arms dangling over the back of the couch. “This is your hill to die on, kid.”

Peter scrunches his face and mumbles a curse.

“We definitely were nowhere near you,” he tells them, laying solemnity on thick. “Spying is a barbaric and cruel sin and we would never stoop to such low levels.”

Tony nods. “You’re right. You would never catch me committing such _ghastly_ acts. Natasha, what do you have to say for yourself?”

She grins. “I recorded the whole thing.”

Sam rolls his eyes.

“How do you even know it was us, huh?” Tony asks, pointing at May. “Could’ve been Steve. That guy is a menace, I don’t know if you’ve heard. He finished all my peanut butter last week after one visit.” He shakes his head. “Absolute _bastard.”_

May says, “We literally saw you drive away. The license plate said STARKSWAG. If that’s Steve’s custom plate, then I have bigger concerns.”

“Besides, only Nat would call a bonafide mariachi band to an Italian restaurant,” Sam adds.

Peter rests his chin on the back of the couch and rolls his eyes With Drama. “So we spied a little. What _ever,_ it’s like, totally no big _deal.”_

“It’s sort of a big deal,” Sam says hotly. “What happened to privacy and trust? I thought we were past the stage where the brat threatened me with sentimental baseball bats.”

“So long as your hands stay out of May’s no-no square, I have no cause to bludgeon you,” Peter says.

Tony looks from Peter to Sam. It’s hard to tell with the kid, usually, if he’s kidding when he’s acting uncomfortable about something. He’s endlessly overkill, constantly putting on a show for an audience of _himself,_ but Tony probably knows what that’s like better than anyone. And he sure as shit has learned a little lesson or two over the years as to how hiding things that chafe ends up: bad. 

_Really_ bad, usually. 

He squints at Peter. “So you’re saying there’s absolutely nothing at all that made your tummy roll when you watched Sam rubbing his little Falcon fingers all over your aunt’s arm before?”

“I hate every word that just came out of your mouth,” Sam announces. Peter wrinkles his nose in agreement.

“And when you realized she ordered some good ol’ comfort food from the homeland instead of pretending to be an Instagram influencer and ordering some—grilled quinoa bowl of sadness, that didn’t surprise you?”

“Tony,” Peter says warningly.

“What about when you saw her laughing at his jokes? No weird, suppressed tension at the idea of you not being May’s best guy anymore?”

“ _Tony,_ ” Peter repeats, flushing bright red across his cheeks and over the tips of his ears. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Peter, were you really—are you not okay with this?” May asks, her face openly distressed as she steps stuntedly closer to the couch fort they’re all hiding behind. 

Peter looks from her face to Sam’s, and then says in one breath, “Am I going to have to call you Uncle Sam because I really can’t emotionally and mentally handle associating the name of an American propaganda figure with your face and it makes my brain hurt really bad to imagine you making us breakfast and watching James Dean movies and doing Ben stuff when Ben isn’t here to say if it’s okay, but I can’t say that out loud because you’re both _happy.”_

Peter gasps hugely before giving a sweeping look over all of them.

Then he stands and all but runs to the elevator, the lot of them too shocked to do anything but watch.

* * *

Peter hears May coming before he’s even out of the building. 

“Peter!” she calls, her heels clicking against the marble floors. “Come on, wait a second.”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Peter,” May pulls him to a halt, “you’re not actually okay with this, are you?”

“What? No, yeah, totally, we’ve discussed this ad nauseam. I’m a-ok, crystal cool.”

Her shoulders fall as she sighs. May rakes a hand through her hair and then looks up at him. “I need you to be honest with me. If this isn’t something that you want—”

“I shouldn’t get to have a stake in your love life—”

“Yes you should,” she says, earnest. “Of _course_ you should. You’re my kid, baby. All of this affects you too, and if it’s too much or you’re not ready then I want you to _tell me.”_

“May...” Peter runs a hand down his face. “It’s not me that I’m worried about.”

“So it’s me? Because I wouldn’t be doing this if—”

“It’s _Sam._ ”

Her brow furrows. “What, because of the whole thing between Steve and Tony?”

“ _No,_ ” Peter says. “Because he’s an Avenger, which means he’s always gonna wanna be the hero. Believe me, I know, I’m the same way. And like, I already stress you out enough as it is, but you wanna double time that? I don’t know. I just... I don’t want you to get hurt. Guys like me and Sam... we don’t think before we fight—and I know that is the absolute _last_ thing you want to hear from me, but if we’re being brutally honest with each other then I have to say it. I will _always_ put everyone else before myself. I don’t know how to change that. And Sam? That dude is like... noble squared. He’s Team Cap, you know? They have like _no_ self preservation on that side of town.” He takes a breath before adding, “I just don’t want it happening to you all over again.” 

May is crying, but only a little bit and she’s smiling, too. She reaches up and pushes his hair back. “God, Ben would be so proud of you.”

“May—”

“No, really.” She shakes her head. “I miss him too. Every single day, I swear. But I have to move on.”

“And you like Sam,” Peter finishes for her. 

She nods. “Yeah. I do.”

He takes that in and then smiles. “I guess I can live with it.”

“You promise?”

Peter laughs because really, it’s kind of funny: doesn’t she know he’d do anything for her? “Of course,” he says, and takes her hand. “Come on. You want ice cream? We’re getting ice cream.”

They swing their arms back and forth as they walk out of the building.

* * *

Nat and Tony stand shoulder to shoulder with their binoculars, peering out of the street-facing penthouse window, and watch Peter and May set off together. They tap knuckles in celebration of a mission well accomplished.

**Author's Note:**

> as always don’t forget to like and subscribe and hit that notification bell so you never miss a post! 
> 
> -stankyflower


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